Rising
by Magi Silverwolf
Summary: Luna was a titan. Neville was a warrior. Harry was a champion. They were heroes and always, without fail, heroes rise. (RAC fill)


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

 **Warnings:** This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.

 **Author's Note(s):** This piece was written for a challenge in the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry (Challenges & Assignments) on the FFN forum.

 **The Challenge Information** :  
 **House** : Gryffindor  
 **Claimed Pairing:** Lunar Heroes (Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood/Harry Potter)  
 **Day 06:** When your soulmate dyes their hair, your hair changes color too  
 **Extra Prompt[s]** : n/a  
 **Word Count** : 1568

-= LP =-

Rising

-= LP =-

"Sleep now under my skin/make sure you try to/conjure the wind/and ease my mind."

– Matt Corby, _Brother_

-= LP =-

Dione Lovegood had kept her lock long, even when she chopped the rest of her hair pixie-short. She would braid it carefully every morning. It had been her badge of honor, a declaration that she had made the right choice to leave the little Greek island where she had been born to settle with Xenophilius in the cold and dreary North. Those who dared to question her decision was met with a hard stare and a quick wand. She only rarely had to hex the offender. Usually the color-changing jinx on Xenophilius' hair and the resulting shift in color of Dione's carefully maintained lock was enough.

"We are of the gods, my little moonbeam," she had told Luna one afternoon when they sat in the big rocking chair watching the rain outside the window. "We are born of magic as much as we wield it. We silence their wagging tongues only as needed. Otherwise we rise above their words as the titans whose names we share once rose above the gods themselves."

It was that attitude that Luna adopted in the face of the mocking of her housemates and their bullying. She did not let their words affect her. She wrapped aloofness around herself like it was a shield. When they stole her shoes, she went barefoot. When they stole her homework, she took to making extra copies. When they stole her hairbrush, she shorn the hair she had spent a lifetime growing, just as her mother had once worn her hair.

And just like Dione, she kept her dual-colored lock unaltered. Just like her mother, she wore the fate given to her by Magic proudly and without reservation.

She was born of magic and she would not bow to anyone else's judgement. She would rise like a titan.

Even when that attitude made her a favorite target of the Death Eaters who occupied Hogwarts under Voldemort's Reign, she did not waver in her resolve. The moon did not bow to the whims of the ocean. Even stolen from the train home and trapped in a dungeon, she did not forget her place, her purpose.

And through it all, Luna maintained the same morning ritual of soothing the lock and braiding it anew. She would run the hair through her fingers, memorizing the texture as much as the color. The sandy-blond portion was as soft as a whisper. The raven-black had a slight curl to it, as if it would curl if only the length was right. She didn't know who they were, and the way the war was going, she may never know. It didn't matter.

She was a titan, even in loyalty to the unknown soulmates she may never know as such.

Titans did not fall.

They rose above it all.

-= LP =-

It was an old custom to train a child with a non-magical weapon. Most of the families that toted the purity of their blood did not follow the practice, sneering at the idea of fighting with anything other than magic. It was the older families, the ones who could still feel the Call that made them _magum_ , that kept the tradition alive. Augusta Longbottom had nearly broken that tradition with her grandson, despite pushing Neville to be like his father in all other ways. She looked at the swords and knives, and all she could see was the different ways she could lose him, too.

For all that Neville seemed to be different than Frank, this was the one way that both boys were the same. Neville took to the sword as a babe to the teat. On the practice field, all of his nervous nature drained away. He was focused. He was fierce. He was lethal.

He was _magum_.

If Neville wasn't in his greenhouses, then he was somewhere with a sword in hand. He would battle the many dummies and tutors he had gone through over the years. Augusta let him have his head in it as the years went by with no indications of him having magic other than the soul-lock. As the Regent of Longbottom, she held fast to the strength promised by two distinctive hair types in that lock, as only the strongest magi could bear the burden of multiple soulmates; as his Gran, she wanted only that he find happiness with them. Being her brother had been the only thing which had saved Algie when he had dropped Neville out that window. As it was, she had no problem banishing him from Thistlewood and forbidding him from seeing Neville.

It was in the wake of the Battle in the Ministry that Augusta knew she didn't have to worry about him, in any real respect. She had been so angry with him for invading the Department of Mysteries—he could have been _killed_ or worse. Her old heart simply couldn't take losing another child to something other than death. She had stormed the hospital wing of Hogwarts ready to lock him away in Thistlewood where he would be _safe_. The sight that greeted her had stopped her in the doorway.

Neville sat on the foot of an occupied bed, still in the clothing he had worn to the Ministry given how it was torn and stained with the residues of battle. Blood caked his hair in places, but his lock remained untouched. In the dimmed lights of the ward, the pale blond portion seemed to glow while the black stuck up defiantly. What had stilled her was figures around her grandson. The bed's occupant was barely darker than the crisp sheets she rested upon, so pale that she seemed to glow. Sleeping half on the bed and half in the visitor chair was another bloodied student. His face was turned away but his wild hair was a familiar pitch. Augusta's anger died swiftly as she accepted that there was no way that Neville would not have gone.

He was the Longbottom of Longbottom, and there was no way that he would have let his soulmates go into battle alone. She held fast to that knowledge when he insisted on returning to Hogwarts for his seventh year, simply because his Luna was. Every night he spent in the company of monsters, she prayed to gods she had given up on, that he would be safe. He was doing what the Call demanded of him, defending those who needed it.

He was _magum_ , and with the rank came responsibility.

Magic would not let her Chosen fall, so long as they answer her Call.

He was _magum_ , and he will rise.

-= LP =-

Harry awoke to a white world. It was blinding and disorienting. Slowly, the world settled into bleached version of the hospital wing with himself on the bed that the matron was forever threatening to put his name upon if he kept visiting so regularly. He took a deep breath, letting the feeling of _safecalmprotected_ wash over him, despite not seeing any trace of his usual sentinel. That could only be a good thing. If Neville was here, then he would be just as dead, wouldn't he? Who would take care of Luna then? They needed each other to survive.

"You are a strange one, my Champion."

Harry snapped his gaze to the new occupant of his little corner of the afterlife. Their noses were almost touching. The woman gave him a gentle smile as he scrabbled away from her, succeeding in falling off the bed. Her silver eyes sparkled with laughter at his expense and they were so much like Luna's that his heart ached. Dark brown hair stuck out in puffs a face that looked similar to the Ravenclaw. A single blond braid fell along the side of that face and her neck—a soul-lock with the more normal coloration that everyone except Luna, Neville, and him had.

"Who are you?"

"Do you mean the last possessor of this face or who am _I_?"

"Both would be nice."

"And that's why I like you, Harry Potter," she told him with a wolfish grin. "This face used to belong to Dione, late of Lovegood and bearer of your Luna. I am your Mother, just as I am to all things which bear my Gift."

"You're Magic."

"You're my Chosen Champion."

"How can I champion anything? I'm dead."

"Are you really?"

"Fairly certain, yeah," Harry replied before he thought about who he was giving cheek. Luckily, Magic just laughed rather than—well, whatever could happen to a dead person, even if that state was apparently in question. "Look, if I'm not dead, then I really should be getting back—Neville will be really worried if I don't come back and Luna's eyes will do that shimmery thing that means she's trying not to cry. Not that visiting with you isn't the highlight of this particular misadventure."

"Oh, I could never be insulted that you prefer the company of your soulmates, my Champion. It _is_ why I matched you. I would love to spend more time with you, but you do have some rather pressing matters to attend to, now that you have removed the last of the abominations."

"So how do I get back?"

"It's simple, Harry Potter, as simple and easy as waking from a dream." She gave him a smile. "You open your eyes and _rise_."

And like a phoenix from the ashes, _he did_.


End file.
